Babala's Correction Read online

  ‘A wild cat,’ commented the Slavemaster, but showed no concerns as he inspected her sex, easing the rope to one side and fully parting her sex folds.

  ‘Careful, sir,’ warned Bart. ‘She’s lithe on her feet.’

  ‘I noted the disturbance among the crowd,’ said the Slavemaster, but did not halt his inspection. ‘A good length on the clitoris,’ he commented, as he pushed back the hood to bare the tip. ‘That’s always a favourite with the women who delight in their own kind.’ He continued to roll the slip of skin back and forth, thumbing the tip as he did so. Fazath grated her pubis in a rhythm that matched his attentions and Babala noted that her mistress’s eyes became heavy about the lids.

  When he was satisfied the woman was close to her climax he stopped, giving Fazath’s cunny a pat as he did so. ‘Yes, she will be greatly sought after by certain women.’

  ‘Finish it, you fiend!’ hissed Fazath, her dark eyes flashing wildly. She tugged at the rope, trying with all her might to reach her cunny with her bound fingers, but she only succeeded in tightening it about her neck.

  ‘But you will want to be in a state of heightened sensuality, my dear,’ said the Slavemaster, ‘to persuade the prettiest of women to buy you, will you not?’

  ‘Let me!’ Babala exclaimed, throwing herself at her mistress’s feet. ‘Let me help her. Let me bring her to her climax.’ The Taskmaster had warned that her kind nature and willingness to please could get her in trouble, but Babala’s soft lips were parted and her tongue-tip protruded between her white teeth. ‘She has been tortured by these—’

  The crack of the whip echoed above the babble of the crowd and Babala was lifted off her feet by the force of the blow as it snaked about her waist. The guards looked on in astonishment. Capel, in particular, narrowed his eyes in envy at the skill the Slavemaster demonstrated with his whip. Babala, the breath sucked from her body by the tightening of the supple leather around her waist, found herself looking into the cold grey eyes of the Slavemaster, for the coils of the whip had drawn her close to him. She could feel his cock hardening under the richness of his satin robe, embroidered in silks to depict all manner of lewd scenes, and it made her more aware of her own nakedness and vulnerability.

  ‘How dare you presume to even suggest help for that woman.’ His voice was low, hissed in her ear. ‘You are a slave. Don’t you understand that? And by the looks of things, born to be one.’ Babala felt his fingers opening her sex, slicking them through her moistness, and rubbing her nubbin in rhythmical strokes. ‘Answer me,’ he whispered huskily, ‘or am I to add dumb insolence to the rest of your crimes?’

  The sweet heaviness of limbs came upon Babala, that which she was taught to enjoy by the Taskmaster. Breasts swelling and nipples hardened to taut buds, she leaned against the Slavemaster. ‘Yes, sir,’ she murmured. ‘I am insolent. I deserve whatever punishment you give me.’

  ‘You do not deserve this,’ he rasped as his hand wormed between her thighs. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Babala whispered. ‘I am aware of that.’ It was as if she was mesmerised by the heat of his body, the smell of his masculinity, and she gave an involuntary gasp as strong fingers entered her, slipping into her warm moistness.

  Everything around her; the Lady Fazath, the guards, the noisy crowds, were as nothing as she pleasured herself on his skilled fingers. Using the muscles of her sex she petted them and moved her hips in a rhythm that matched his hand. At every inward thrust he chafed her clitty and she could not hold back her mews of pleasure. It did not occur to her that she was writhing like an animal in a very public place; she was merely doing what she had learned from the harem and the Taskmaster.

  ‘A pity the girl is so used,’ he sneered derisively as he pushed her away from him, and she hung her head in shame as she staggered, buffeted and surreptitiously mauled by the encroaching crowd. She was disgraced, but even so, something in his eyes told her that he was not dismissing her so lightly as it seemed. He fingered the silken tresses of the cascade of golden hair, stroked the taut underswell of her breasts, and released the leather whip from her waist in an almost tender manner.

  ‘Had she not been so marked and her body so penetrated by cocks from goodness knows where,’ he said, as if speaking to himself, ‘she would have fetched a pretty price.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Bart, his eyes eager and bright.

  ‘Oh, easily a casket full of shekels, but as it is...’ He turned away, but beckoned over his shoulder to the guards. ‘Bring them to the podium. We’ll see what we can get for you.’

  Babala was pulled through the sniggering crowd by her bound wrists. Hot tears stung her eyes. The Slavemaster enjoyed her, that much was plain, but then threw her from him like a used dishrag. For the first time in her life she felt shame in her talent for giving pleasure to men. Even the guards had not made her feel so humiliated, for all their cruelty and taunting.

  As she stumbled through the square, led by Bart, men lifted their tunics and thrust out their cocks lewdly. Women spat at her and spread their thighs, arched their hips, or stuck their fingers between their sex lips, pushing them in and out like cocks.

  ‘Whore!’ spat one woman.

  ‘Harlot!’ hissed another.

  Helpless though she was in her almost total bondage, the Lady Fazath gave a few well-placed kicks, scattering the bullies like dominoes falling one after the other. Babala lifted her head just enough to give Fazath a look of gratitude.

  At last they reached the podium. Graf, Capel, Bart and Peli positioned themselves as close to the small stage as they could. The other girls waiting to be sold were clad in simple white gowns, which although flimsy, preserved just a little modesty. Looking at them surreptitiously Babala could not help the envy that twisted in her stomach. They looked so clean and neat, almost virginal, and even more, they had no marks left by the whip. Babala’s cramped hands strayed to the latest welt, the one that spanned her waist from the Slavemaster’s lash.

  ‘We have an excellent parcel of slave girls for you this morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ cried the Slavemaster. The babble of the crowd died to a soft murmur at his commanding voice. He pushed a slender dark-haired girl forward. Babala judged her age to be no more than her own.

  ‘This one will make an excellent body slave for some discerning gentleman,’ he continued and, as he spoke, he ripped the girl’s gown to bare her breasts. They were pert, the nipples small, pink as a maiden’s. ‘These will fill out nicely with regular treatment,’ he added, and patted each breast in turn, first with his fingers and then lifting the delicate curve of the underswell with the whip handle.

  The girl blushed with humiliation and tried to gather the torn folds of her gown together to hide her breasts.

  ‘Stop that!’ ordered the Slavemaster. ‘You are here to be shown, and do you think your new master will allow such false modesty?’

  The crowd sniggered and the girl choked back a sob as the Slavemaster ripped her gown further, baring a flat belly that was adorned by a gold ring at her navel. From the ring were suspended two fine gold chains that were pulled to the girl’s crotch, and Babala could see a glint of gold where the outer lips of her cunny split.

  ‘This one has been kept chaste,’ said the Slavemaster, with a meaningful look at Babala. ‘She was properly brought up and her sex pouch has been kept unsullied by men. Her mistress kept her cunt behind this golden door.’ He slapped the girl’s inner thighs with the whip handle to indicate that she should spread them. ‘Tilt,’ he ordered brusquely.

  Obediently, the girl did as she was told and the crowd’s murmur grew as between the parted legs they saw a fitted gold cup, locked about the girl’s body by the fine chains.

  ‘Turn round,’ he commanded, ‘and bend forward, thighs kept nicely apart.’ The girl, in her embarrassment, hesitated, although only for a moment. ‘Do as you’re told!’ The crack of a palm upon
a curvaceous buttock broke the sudden hushed silence in the market square.

  Babala bit her lip as she heard sobs break in earnest and saw the girl’s spread legs tremble as she bent forward. Again an excited murmur ran through the crowd. Between the parted buttocks could clearly be seen a gold padlock, positioned exactly at the girl’s bottom hole.

  ‘She must ask to be released for natural purposes,’ explained the Slavemaster. ‘Such a ploy keeps them subservient, you see, ladies and gentlemen.’

  The girl was pushed to the very edge of the podium and her tattered gown was drawn from her shoulders to leave her completely naked. The Slavemaster ordered her to stand with legs apart and cunny tilted to display the chastity cup and the plump flesh lips that cocooned its sides.

  ‘Head up and dry your eyes,’ hissed the Slavemaster, chucking the girl under the chin with the whip handle. ‘Look boldly upon the crowd and try to smile. Do you think your new master will enjoy a girl who weeps and is afraid when he approaches with his cock at the ready to open her maidenhead?’

  Babala’s guards were amazed at the number of shekels the girl fetched, and they looked enviously as she was taken away by her new owner, a large man with fierce eyes and a whip held ready in his free hand. The girl looked pleadingly over her shoulder at Babala, but there was nothing to be done. Nothing.

  At last it was Babala’s turn to be pushed to the front of the podium, and the Slavemaster was scathing in his remarks about her.

  ‘A beauty, this one,’ he said, ‘but much used, I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen. She is also marked by the whip, although she heals well.’ He turned Babala round and tapped the round hillocks of her bottom to point out the paling welts. ‘And here,’ he said, turning her again to lift her breasts and stroke her belly. He tapped her again. ‘Tilt to reveal your cunny, girl.’

  Sapphire eyes wide with pleading, Babala shook her head almost imperceptibly, knowing that the Slavemaster’s seed was still coating the golden curls of her outer lips.

  ‘Tilt!’ he snapped, slapping her breasts, so with legs tensed and parted Babala tilted her cunny forward as he demanded.

  ‘Use your fingers to reveal yourself further.’ His voice was low and his dark eyes hooded with lust as he gave the order.

  It would do her no good to disobey, Babala knew that, so with trembling fingers she peeled open her outer lips. At the sight of the juicy folds and flushed pink nubbin the crowd gave a howl of glee that rose to a roar when the Slavemaster tapped the bud with the tip of his whip.

  ‘A beautiful sight, ladies and gentlemen, is it not?’ he said. ‘This girl could become quite a conversation piece within your household.’

  It was then that he began to push the bulbous knob of the whip handle into the slippery folds. ‘But nothing is perfect,’ he continued. ‘She is well used here...’

  Babala clutched the bulb with her cunny muscles to show that she remained tight, but the Slavemaster made no mention of it, simply turned her round roughly. ‘And here,’ he added, forcing her to bend, the whip handle bulb played about her rear hole.

  ‘I do not expect you to pay a great deal for such used goods,’ announced the Slavemaster, almost sorrowfully. ‘She allowed herself to be used by rough soldiers and they were a little too playful, a little too boisterous in their usage.’ He frowned at the guards, shook his head and tutted in a chiding manner.

  The crowd was silent until one woman cried out, ‘Whore!’ and others took up the cry until the square was a hubbub of catcalls.

  ‘Quite right, my dear ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, grinning widely until the catcalls died down. ‘Nothing but a whore, so I’ll have her taken below and then send her to be used in the taverns.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bart. ‘She gets nothing? Not a shekel?’

  The Slavemaster shrugged as he handed her over to a jailer who stood at the back of the podium. ‘I’m afraid so. Too used, you see.’

  Babala hung her head in humiliation as the Slavemaster’s helper stepped forward. ‘Jailer,’ he said, ‘take her below until I have time to deal with her.’

  The jailer was a filthy creature and Babala cringed as he clutched her upper arm with his grimy fingers. He wore a greasy square of leather to hide his genitals and his upper body was covered in dark matted hair.

  ‘A whore, eh?’ he hissed through broken, rotted teeth, as he dragged her from the podium and down a flight of worn steps to a maze of dark and dank cells.

  ‘No, I’m not a whore,’ Babala said, through sobs of indignation. ‘I was prepared for the Prince.’

  The jailer’s filthy free hand slipped down over the pleasing flatness of her tummy to the pad of her pussy mound. ‘And what Prince is that? There is no prince in Brentasi. Only a dictator.’

  Babala twisted her body, trying desperately to escape his loathsome advances, but his fingers slipped down further to enter the moist crevice of her sex pouch. She felt his ragged nail stroke the slippery tip of her nubbin and she couldn’t help but arch against his touch.

  ‘And a well trained whore at that,’ the foul brute croaked. ‘You love the touch of a man, do you not? See how you thrust against my fingers, urging me to slip them into your warm softness.’

  ‘It’s because I was trained...’

  ‘Just as I said; a well trained whore.’ The jailer twisted her against him, lifting the leather square to reveal his cock, bigger even than Capel’s. ‘Not many girls can take this. They scream with horror at the thickness and length of it. I was cursed until the Slavemaster flung you to me.’

  ‘I was trained by the Taskmaster in the palace of Ellipsis,’ Babala insisted, but such was her training that she no longer struggled.

  ‘Good...’ he murmured. ‘Excellent.’

  She could feel the massive bulb of his flesh sword opening the dark folds of her cunny and her breathing became more rapid as her traitorous excitement grew.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to play a little game.’ The two were locked together by the gnarled length that was partially inserted between her thighs.

  ‘As it pleases you, sir,’ Babala whispered meekly. Her training went deep, and as the jailer said, perhaps she was too well trained for her own good.

  ‘Oh, it would greatly please me,’ he wheezed, and then pushed her to the darkest corner of a dank cell and she felt the hardness of wood against her bottom, and then she was lifted and placed upon a worn table-like contraption.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked fearfully, her buttocks lifted by a shaped wooden pillow that served to also part her thighs. She felt extremely open and vulnerable.

  ‘As I said,’ murmured the jailer, ‘just a little toy of mine...’

  Wrists released from the bonds Babala had worn for two days were immediately clamped wide apart in shackles fixed to the head of the table. Her ankles were similarly spread and clamped securely, and the position in which she was placed lifted her tummy and breasts and offered her fleshpot to her captor. She was rendered totally helpless and at the jailer’s mercy.

  The bottom pillow thrust up and spread her sex, and she was all too aware that the dim candlelight revealed her pert pink nubbin very clearly against the darkness of her sex folds.

  ‘How do you feel?’ The jailer bent to lap his tongue about each bud of her nipples.

  ‘V-very open,’ admitted Babala.

  ‘As a whore should be for her client.’ The tongue laid a trail of spittle over her raised belly and wetted the upper curls of her cunny.

  ‘I’m not a whore.’ Babala struggled against the iron clamps, but only succeeded in causing her wrists to be chafed by the cold hardness of the iron manacles.

  ‘Who but a whore would allow herself to be led to this table so willingly?’ persisted the odious jailer, shuffling between her straddled thighs. ‘Eh? Answer me that.’ He waved his monstrous penis over her like a huge wand. It was thick and
full, the skin stretched by its contents, the bulb shining with the slime of pre-issue.

  ‘The Taskmaster tutored me well,’ Babala argued meekly, her eyes fixed upon the waving cock. ‘I was taught to pleasure men, but I am not a whore.’

  The jailer grunted and slumped upon her helpless body, and her opening was so slick and ready that he entered her without trouble. A sigh of supreme pleasure whispered from his slobbering lips and Babala could feel him pulsing in her cushiony depths. She could feel him butting at the very limits of her womb, but remembering what the Slavemaster had said about her used condition, she clung like a limpet upon the jailer’s cock and watched his eyes open in surprise.

  ‘How beautiful!’ he grunted, drool glistening on his unshaven chin. ‘No woman has done that...’ The crushed girl heard his foul breath quicken and become shallow as he shunted deep into her with rapid stabs. But despite his rough appearance she could not help the naughty thrills of pleasure that swirled in her lower belly; could not help the pouting of her breasts against his scrawny chest, the arching of her pussy mound against his butting groin.

  ‘How now?’ bellowed a familiar voice, becoming louder as the owner descended the ancient slimy steps to the cells. ‘What is this?’

  The jailer sweated heavily over Babala, wetting the tendrils of golden hair that spread about the smooth and creaking wood of the bench, and with a final pig-like grunt he thrust and released his jets of copious semen into her. He grunted again and struggled to pull his cock from her clutching depths, but when he did his still turgid cock continued to spurt, arcing its cream onto her belly and thighs.

  ‘She - she tempted me, sir,’ he blurted sheepishly, his greasy hair curtaining his bowed face. ‘I could not help myself, sir.’

  The newcomer laughed, stepping over to the bench and fingering the cold iron that manacled Babala’s wrists. ‘So I see.’ The tone dripped sarcasm, and the richly woven and embroidered satin of the Slavemaster’s robe rustled in her ears, and she knew that, despite his apparent merriment, he was angry. ‘She clambered onto the rack and locked herself into the clasps herself, I suppose.’